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‘This is a stand-up comedy show,” says Phil Wang near the beginning of Kinabalu. “I hope that becomes self-evident in time.” It certainly does – and in very little time at all. The laughs come tumbling forth almost from the moment Wang arrives on stage, looking quizzically about the place from behind his glasses.

Wang’s fourth solo Edinburgh Fringe show (he has also performed here twice with the sketch group Daphne) is, by some distance, his most accomplished yet. Gone is that off-putting whiff of smugness, which was seemingly rooted in wonder at his own intelligence. To soften some steelier, more political material, Wang has developed an easy, even self‑deprecating, charm.

Easy charm: Phil Wang

Kinabalu is the area of Malaysia where Wang was born and raised. His mother, however, is from Stoke-on-Trent, “a dark corner of the Empire yet to be fully mapped”. She met Wang’s father, a kung-fu instructor, while on holiday in Malaysia.

As a result of this rather unlikely coalition – which Wang takes great pleasure in picking apart – Wang has always been an outsider: the whitest boy in Malaysia; never the whitest boy in England. He uses this position as the starting point from which he explores post-colonialism, racism, white privilege and – yes – Brexit.

Wang has, he explains, an objectivity about Britain gained from living elsewhere. He calls this “immigrant patriotism” and it allows him to touch on subjects from which other comics might shy away. He is, for example, entirely happy to point out that, on balance, it is probably better to be wearing jumpers than to be making jumpers. And he presents a brave, compelling case for certain elements of the British Empire.

It is risky stuff but, as with much of Wang’s material, it comes wrapped in irresistible comic ribbons. These fall away so gracefully as a routine unfolds, meaning the full gravity of what is being said sneaks up on you – and before you know it, you’re laughing at something you really shouldn’t be.

For all this, though, Wang’s trademark splurges of silliness are still splattered across the show. A shamelessly puerile routine about the awkward moment in a supermarket, when Wang believes he finally became a man, allows him to scurry off down an absurd hole, from which we don’t emerge until Wang has had his fun. This is not a complaint.

Wang, let’s not forget, is still only 27. But for all the lauded appearances on panel shows and BBC Radio 4, his stand-up was in real danger of becoming frustrating. Potentially brilliant material was too often smothered by indulgent flourishes designed to impress, rather than enlighten or amuse, his audience.

So what a pleasure it is to report that, at last, the promise of Wang’s early efforts has been transformed into something genuinely quite special.